Uh,Seriously?

The response I get always comes with a look that Arnold Jackson made famous when he looked at his brother and said, “Whatcha talking about Willis?”.  But I’m serious.

There are times during stress when you can actually taste it.  It rests back in your throat and has an almost dull taste to it.  It, unfortunately, is usually accompanied by a feeling of two knuckles applying pressure on either side of your spine (at the back of your neck), and under your eyes near the bridge of your nose.  A day of this feeling is hard.  A week?  Exhausting.  A month?  Torture.  At one point I would have done nearly anything to relieve the pressure.  And then a friend took me to a psychic and it was like someone pricked the water-balloon.

Whether you believe or don’t, hear me out….

What a psychic does is talk about the future.  And change is inevitably coming.  So,  for a couple of bucks and a few minutes, your fantasizing about how things WILL BE and not how things ARE.  It’s delightful.  Whether the stuff you talk about actually comes true or not, you have something to look forward to.  She’d say, “In about two weeks…” and for that time I was entertained looking for clues!  That excitement was enough to get me through two weeks that could have otherwise been dreadful.  If what we talked about came true?  It would stop me dead in my tracks and make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  If it didn’t?  I was grateful I had two weeks of fun.  (Came true more times than not, by the way.)

A lot of friends and family are non-believers.  I get it.  Yet this woman did something for me that none of their platitudes could:  got me to believe things were actually going to get better.

That belief made it happen.

So, you’re flat broke.  No job.  No change in your circumstances in sight.  You’ve budgeted every dime; planned out every meal.  Since you haven’t left the house in a couple of days in a row, you wear the same outfit (the risk of being caught wearing those pants again is very slim, so go ahead…Do It!).  You’ve scaled back to the point where walking to the grocery store not only saves gas, but also a gym membership.  You dread going to get the mail because you figure that tucked in the stack of junk coupons, there’s a bill you’ve forgotten to budget in.  And then, there it is…tucked in those coupons, instead of finding a bill, you find a postcard.  You crane your neck forward and scrunch your brow to take a closer look.  Yup, definitely a postcard.  One from some friends of yours (gainfully employed, of course), who sent it while on their vacation.  You flip it over to see a picture of the most remote, white, sandy beach and the bluest water you can imagine.  A quick flip back to where one writes about their amazing time, and you see the four words that make you wish it was a bill, instead:  Wish You Were Here!

Uh, Seriously?  SERIOUSLY.

First of all, who sends postcards anymore?  F*cking post a picture on your Facebook profile and move on, Bragger!  But for those people who insist on sending cards detailing your expensive travel-adventure (I mean, no one sends postcards when they’re camping in Oklahoma, do they?), could you put a little more thought into what you’re sending while licking the postage stamp?

What broke, unemployed friend, who hasn’t exercised in weeks (certainly NOT beach ready), and is wearing the same, gray, hooded sweatshirt (last week’s pizza stain included), wants a postcard of your vacation???  And what makes me kinda chuckle, is the one that says, “Wish You Were Here!” from the friends you were SUPPOSED to be traveling with, but you backed out of the trip when you got the axe.  And the best part?  Wait until they get back and they ask if you received their postcard!  Yup, your hell over this one is not yet over, my friend.  It’s likely to pop up again as soon as you see your tanned, relaxed, wrinkle-free friends on the street!

(The truth of the matter is I like getting postcards.  And getting mail that isn’t a bill is kinda fun, too.  I’m happy for my friends that don’t have to suffer right now.  But c’mon….postcards are a little like washing your hands after getting a papercut from opening up bills, right?  It stings.)

So any guesses where the postcard was from?  Hint:  It’s in the Caribbean.

When I was working, I would look at people who volunteered and think, “Wow, it must be nice to have time to do that”.  I would hear about a great book that everyone was talking about and think, “Uh, seriously?  Who has time to read?  I barely have time to scan over the photos in People magazine!”  Taking a yoga class; working out everyday; cleaning up the garden in the back.  Those were also on the list.  And had remained there for years.   So shortly after my newfound “retirement” (as I used to like to call it), I took a day.  A whole day.  I put on some George Winston.  I opened up the doors and windows in my home and didn’t let anything distract me while I tried to remember all the times I thought to myself “It Must Be Nice”.  And soon, the list started pouring out of me.

On the top of the list was volunteering.  I had always kicked myself for not finding the time.  And now, I had all the time in the world comparatively.  I recalled stories in the past that had either touched me or made me pissed off.  Kids, Alzheimer’s, Hurricane Katrina, homelessness, poverty, the environment all made it.  And then from that, I tried to find an organization that was involved in these areas and I called them.  THAT DAY.  No more excuses.

A month later I found myself helping build homes in New Orleans.  To pay for the trip, I sold my 2nd car.  I didn’t know how much I loved that car until I saw it drive away.  The memories that car could recall.  Whoa.  As cliche as it may be, the back seat involved some hilarious stories.  I also called the local Ronald McDonald House and started volunteering there on Tuesdays. Fridays, I assembled meals at yet another agency, that would later be delivered to homebound HIV and cancer patients.

Volunteering had been on my “It Must Be Nice” list when I was working.  Now, it was first on my list when I wasn’t.  It would also prove to be the most valuable.

I once attended an event where Mike Eruzione spoke.  He was the captain of USA’s 1980 Olympic Ice Hockey team that won that impossible gold medal. For a sports fan like myself, when I met him, he could have been the Pope.  He made my back sweat and voice quiver.  Anyway, during his speech, he said something that stuck with me that day and every day since.  He said that he told his teammates to never complain and always be grateful, because no matter who you are or what situation you’re in, there is someone out there that would kill to switch places with you.  And it’s true.

I was feeling pretty low when I lost my job.  I was scared.  I mean really scared.   Depressed.  Lost.  But, when I was in New Orleans and met the 71-year-old woman who owned the house that I had been repairing for a week, and she told me the story of how she spent 2 days on her roof watching everything she owned and loved get washed away, I thought about my fear.  It was nothing compared to what she had gone through.  I still had a home.  She didn’t. (Yet!).  And this was 2 years after the storm.

Another time, I got all depressed about my new, “unemployment” budget and what that would buy me for food.  No more going out.  Probably had to watch out for a good buy at the grocery store.  Albertson’s.  Not Whole Foods anymore.  And then once, while assembling the bags of donated food for delivery to the HIV/cancer patients, I helped the agency’s owner put together a bag of food for a guy standing outside on the sidewalk.  Unemployed, broke and hungry, he also just got evicted from his apartment.  And, his partner, who was in the late stages of AIDS, was sitting in the passenger seat of their car–the car they now lived in.

In both situations, as soon as I came out from underneath my shock at their stories, I thought about what Mike had said.  Compared to my situation, I’m sure they would kill to switch with me.

That’s the lesson that has kept my spirits up since.  And, when you’re spirits are up, you’ll also find the other things on your “It Must Be Nice” list also get a big, fat, check mark next to them.

Not sh*tting, about an hour later my boss, the head of the department, stands in between our two offices and says, “Before you take off for the night, please stop by my office”.  I looked at my aforementioned associate.  He looked at me.  And I felt the back of my neck getting warmer and my stomach getting lighter.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.”

“You’ve got 5 years here.”

“You’re a senior member of the the team!  A trusted advisor.”

“You’re projects are crucial to the survival of this company, and you’re the only force behind those projects”.

And then it happened…As I walked in, my boss had tears in her eyes and she said the only words I remember in the hour long meeting:  ”Tomorrow is going to be the worst day in the company’s history.  We are cutting half the number of employees. And you’re one of the them”.

Did I hear that right?

Me?

Check the list, again!

Uh, seriously?

Thankfully, and shortly thereafter, I had enough wits about me to find a song on my iPod that I thought would carry me through the long drive home afterwards.  Songs are like Post-It Flags in the book of my life.  I went with one that even now when I hear it, is my battle cry.  The lyrics have nothing to do with what I had just gone through, but can be sung at the top of your lungs, with a fist pumping in the air, relieving tension in your shoulder, and producing light sweat on your brow.  All of which happened during my drive.  And, much to the appreciation of the other drivers in congested traffic on the freeway.  But I didn’t care.  Watch all you want to!  Yes, I was THAT person you all find at some point, driving down the street, singing like there’s no tomorrow. You laugh because it’s happened to you.  Don’t lie!  Anyway, I played it over, and over, and over again.  Singing louder and louder each time!

Want to guess what song it was?  Hint:  It’s a Fleetwood Mac song.

And so there’s my first piece of advice:  Find a fight song.  Don’t stress out about finding the perfect song.  Or one with lyrics that are appropriate.  Just one that will produce a little sweat, and make you dance (as ugly as that can be) even in a car.

You’ll need it for the future